


Reformation

by MistressKat



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4187106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressKat/pseuds/MistressKat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“It’s awfully dirty work, isn’t it? Thwarting an apocalypse.”</i> – Wing-grooming in the ineffable aftermath of survival.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reformation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pushkin666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pushkin666/gifts).



> I wanted to write ficlets in brand new fandoms. pushkin666 gave me the fandom, pairing and ‘Aziraphale’s hands’ as a prompt. Voilà.

 

After the Big Apocalypse That Couldn’t they went back to London because where else were you going to go after either botching up or nailing the most important event in the history of events. The jury was still out on which one of those it was and as far as Crowley was concerned they could keep deliberating indefinitely.  
  
Of course, getting to London was easier said than done which was something of a novelty to both of them, used to as they were – recent events notwithstanding – things being exactly that.  
  
Crowley cast one mournful look at the lump of gently smoking metal that had once been his Bentley and made a pained noise akin to a tiny kitten being separated from its mother. Aziraphale’s hand settled between his shoulder blades, warm and oddly soothing against the exact spot his wings would come out when Crowley let them.  
  
“There’s a bus?” one of the passing guards said in tones that cast severe doubt on the existence of the bus and indeed the whole concept of public transport in general. None of the doubt seemed to be left over to be cast over two civilians wandering along the airstrip in the early hours of the morning.  
  
Aziraphale looked like someone had made him eat a bran muffin, something he knew was good for him but he couldn’t quite bring himself to enjoy. “Oh dear,” he said. “Erm, could we not just…?” He made vague flapping motions with his hands.  
  
“You go right ahead,” Crowley said, gesturing at the slowly brightening sky. “And when you either fall because you’re too exhausted to keep flying, or forget to keep your cover up because you’re too exhausted to think straight, _OR BOTH_ ,” he shouted, suddenly far too worried over the possibility, “and give Heaven a whole new reason to summon you to what I’m sure will be a nice little _friendly_ chat, don’t expect me to help you out!”  
  
“Alright, alright, there’s no need to get so agitated my dear,” Aziraphale said, patting him on the shoulder. “We’ll find something else.”  
  
The jeep was probably a better option than a bus but only by virtue of having no other travellers in it. The music was shit either way.  
  
  
***  
  
  
A few uncomfortable hours later they were back in London, which was just as noisy and unpleasant and complicated as they’d left it. Aziraphale insisted on getting out to stand in the middle of Oxford Street for a moment, head tilted back and breathing deep like he was savouring the moment. Crowley gave him roughly ten seconds, zoning out a little on the torn collar of Aziraphale’s shirt and the glimpse of creamy skin just underneath, before tearing his gaze away and pulling the angel back into the car.  
  
“C’mon,” he said. “I need to sleep for about a century. Let’s go home.”  
  
Without discussion they headed to Soho – Crowley really was too tired to think about the implications of that – only to realise once there that the smouldering pile of charcoal that remained of Aziraphale’s shop was not conducive to rest.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Aziraphale said and turned away to stare at the street, face crumbling. “Perhaps… Perhaps we could stay at your place?”  
  
Crowley’s chest felt tight, like he was suffering from some delayed reaction to the smoke. “Sure,” he said and then remembered about the gooey puddle of former Duke of Hell staining his floor and thought better of it. “Erm, actually, that might not be such a good idea…”  
  
  
***  
  
  
In the end they got a room at the Ritz. The polite young chap at the reception desk was a little surprised to find a suite free so unexpectedly but didn’t even dream of commenting on the dishevelled state of the gentlemen booking it or how they were leaning on each other for support whilst seemingly unaware of it. He also chose not to draw attention to the extremely unprofessional way most of the restaurant staff were crowding the doorway behind them, wearing expressions of unadulterated glee. Later, the receptionist found out that the restaurant staff had been waiting for these two guests to get a room for some time and that Carlos, the shy sous-chef from Brazil, had won the betting pool. Even later that night he also found out that the celebratory champagne they all shared in the staff room tasted even better when drunk direct from Carlos’ not so shy mouth in the cleaning closet on second floor. Let’s just say it was a night of discoveries for our young receptionist and leave it at that, eh?  
  
Several floors up, in a suite so luxurious Aziraphale would have felt duty-bound to be offended over the crass materialism of it all if he hadn’t been busy falling face first into it (in form of goose feather duvet and Egyptian cotton sheets), the celebrations were of far more sedentary nature.  
  
“Move over,” Crowley said, sitting on the bed to kick off his shoes.  
  
There was no response. Crowley slipped out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly to the floor. “Angel? I said, move over. I can’t… Oh for he- um, earth’s sake!” Next to him, Aziraphale was down for the count, having apparently needed nothing more than an almost-end-of-the-world to discover his appreciation of sleep.  
  
Crowley stared at the angel’s prone form for a minute, cataloguing the fall of eyelashes against plump cheeks, the curl of fingers around the pillow, the way his whole body seemed to sink into the mattress like a perfect stone into a still lake, the ripples catching Crowley at every deliberate inhale, reminding him that somehow, ineffably, they were both still here.  
  
He fell asleep like that, without a conscious memory of having even lain down.  
  
  
***  
  
  
In the morning – and Crowley could tell it was only the next morning, not a century later as he would have preferred – he woke up to two interconnected realisations. One, that his wings were out, fully manifested and as corporal as they got, jutting out of his bare back – his shirt apparently having de-manifested to spare itself the rending – and spread out like two granite grey sails, tips brushing the floor on either side of the bed. Two, that someone was touching them in a way the felt really, _really_ good, oh yeah just _there_ , this was…  
  
Too fast on the heels of those two realisations, however, came the third which was neatly summed up with one word. One _name_ , in fact.  
  
“Aziraphale?” he said without opening his eyes, because opening his eyes would mean acknowledging that there was something to acknowledge whereas if he just lay here, unmoving and eyes closed, Aziraphale would probably explain things in a way that didn’t require any of the glorious – firm, perfect, _capable_ – touch to end.  
  
“Yes, dear?” Aziraphale asked. He sounded distracted, like when Crowley tried to pull his attention away from musty books and oh G-, Luci- _Adam_ , the thought of Aziraphale focussing on grooming Crowley’s wings with the same kind of intensity he did on his manuscripts was decidedly not helping.  
  
“Uh, what _isss_ it you’re doing?” Crowley hissed, his mouth going slack against the pillow as Aziraphale stroked a hand over the full length of his wing, all the way to the notch.  
  
“Well I…” There was a moment, barely more than a second, when Crowley felt Aziraphale’s touch falter, his voice catching with uncertainty before evening out. Still, it was enough to let him know that the angel wasn’t as unaffected by all this as he let on.  
  
Somehow, that only made it better.  
  
“It’s awfully dirty work, isn’t it? Thwarting an apocalypse.” Aziraphale’s fingers were combing through his primaries, smoothing them one by one.  
  
Crowley knew Aziraphale wasn’t talking about physical stains. This was more about restoring the – he refused to call it ‘spiritual’ balance out of principle – metaphysical equilibrium, if you like. The world had changed. Well. _The_ world had stayed exactly it was, but _their_ world had certainly gone ass over teakettle so to speak.  
  
So yes, Aziraphale had a point. He also had two clever hands buried deep in Crowley axillaries, fingertips carding through the soft feathers and brushing the sensitive skin at the root of his wings at every pass. And that... Crowley didn't…  
  
“ _Angellll_ …” he said, and this time it came out like a moan, like a _prayer_ , and it had been a long, long time since he’d said one of those, even longer since he’d believed in something worth praying for.  
  
“Just… Let me? _Let me._ ” Aziraphale said and it was both a question and a command, heady with the same pure wonder Crowley had felt every second since the world, and the two of them, had gone on existing against all odds.  
  
So Crowley did the only thing left and let him.  
  
There was a sudden weight on his legs and then a deep, soft sound like someone shaking out clean sheets on a sunny day as Aziraphale’s wings spread out, pearly white and smelling like summer wind as they settled over Crowley’s. The angel was a warm, heavy presence at his back, solid and real and _there_ , still _there_ ; the press of his mouth against the back of Crowley’s neck not so much a surprise as an affirmation.  
  
Crowley shuddered, reaching out blindly and lacing their fingers together. He moved slowly and, with perfect, terrible awareness of his actions, of every single possible consequence of them, brought Aziraphale’s hand to his mouth, returning the kiss.  
  
There. _Sealed._  
  
A New Agreement for a New World, Crowley thought, defiant and scared and full of sharp, foreign joy. Then Aziraphale’s hand travelled downward, fingertips dragging over Crowley’s lips, over the column of his throat, as they slipped lower and Crowley didn’t think of anything except the shape of Aziraphale’s name and the feel of it dripping from his tongue like mead, for a long, _long_ while.

 


End file.
